Holm, Stef Ann (26 page)

Camille,
fringed parasol raised, gloves neatly buttoned, and hat angled smartly on her
hair, approached the old building where she hoped to find Alex.

The
shop's shingled roof and siding shimmered gold from a linseed oil wash. Quiet
blanketed the yard. A totem pole under construction rose high and strong, as if
it were a sentinel guarding the building and its occupants. Flawless detail set
off the completed blocks of animals, plants, symbols, and objects. One figure
in particular caught her attention—a grizzly bear with its mouth open, snarling
furiously.

She
moved to the entryway that led to the wide double doors. No sounds from a sanding
plane or saw reached her ears. She peered inside the shop, squinting to adjust
to the change in light. Her gaze scanned the work area, and the back where
lumber was stocked on shelves. No Alex.

Wondering
what to do next, she stood still. It was then that she heard the dull
thump
coming
from behind the wood shop.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Methodical
in its repetition.
Thump,
pause,
thump,
pause,
thump,
pause,
and so forth. As if something were being hit.

Camille
exited the building and walked to the rear. At the corner, she stopped.

Alex
stood with his back to her, a metal bucket of baseballs at his right foot. In
the ground some fifty feet in front of him, he'd created a high slope of dirt
and blocked it with lengths of shop wood to create a strike zone. Wearing a
pair of loose-fitting trousers and a shirt without its tails tucked in, he bent
down and grabbed a baseball, coiled his arm back, and threw it. The ball flew
in a brief blur of gray.

Thump.
Dead
center into the strike zone.

Another
ball.
Thump.
Strike.

Strike.

Strike.

Strike.

One
right after the other until the pail grew empty.

"That's
the
Alex Cordova I signed to play baseball for the Keystones," Camille said,
walking toward him. "Where have you been?"

Alex
turned with a start. He looked up at her through the sweat-damp black hair that
fell into his eyes. Square jaw clamped tight and chest rising and falling from
his exertions, he glared at her.

"How
long have you been standing there?"

"Long
enough to know my father got his money's worth." With an efficient snap of
her wrist, she collapsed her parasol.

The
sleeves on his pale blue shirt had been rolled up to the elbows and the tan
skin on his arms glistened. He reached for a towel beside the bucket and wiped
his face—first his brows, then his forehead, and then behind his neck. A shadow
of stubble darkened his chin and throat. A tingling pushed at her ribs as she
watched him wipe the sweat from his skin.

Tossing
the cloth, he combed his hair from his forehead with his hands. "Why'd you
come out here?"

Caught
up in the sight of him, she fought to find her voice. She ended up foolishly
blurting, "I had to see you alone."

Growing
still, his dark eyes ran the length of her. Long and slow. "Really?"

Her
heart slammed against her chest. "I mean, I need to discuss something with
you and I didn't want to do it in front of the other players."

His
gaze seemed to smolder, his full sensual lips quirking up at the corners.
"I'm not particularly interested in
doing it
in front of the others
either."

On
a short staccato breath, Camille's mouth fell open. "I—I, well..."

But
before she could make a bigger fool of herself, Alex crooked his finger under
her chin and tilted her head up until she was forced to meet his eyes. The
touch as sweet and soft as a caress.

There
was a faint smile on his mouth. "What did you want to talk to me about,
Camille?"

She
wasn't sure what made her knees go weaker— his finger against her skin or his
low, deep voice wrapped around her name.

She
shook her head as if she could clear all her errant thoughts. Her words came
out in one big rush. "Your signed photographs are increasing attendance at
home games."

Abruptly,
he dropped his hand away.

"Well,
the fans aren't coming in droves," she clarified, thankful to be back on
more familiar ground, "but I do believe more are coming to watch us."

"Watch
us make jackasses out of ourselves."

"It
doesn't have to be that way." She looked at the mock strike zone he'd
made. "Alex, I just saw what you're capable of. You're wonderful."
In
more ways than one.
Kisses and touches and her name drifting on his tongue.
Heaven help her, she should have stayed home and pulled weeds.

"I'm
not wonderful."

"But
you are."

He
began to walk away. "Forget about it, Miss Kennison."

She
was no longer Camille to him. She hated the flare of disappointment she felt.

She
forced her thoughts back to baseball and followed him to the front of the
building. "I don't know why you're doing this. Why do you hold back?"

"I
don't hold back. I just happen to foul up when you put me on the mound."
He gave her a disarming smile. "I choke under pressure."

She
frowned. "That's ridiculous."

"That's"—he
chucked the underside of her chin, this time in an entirely unromantic
manner—"the truth."

"It
is not." She ignored the shivers that his touch sent through her. She
followed him inside the building. "You never choked before. What happened
in June of 1898 to make you quit?"

His
steps abruptly ceased. Turning, he regarded her through wary eyes. She could
almost see the memories reflected in his gaze. She didn't think he'd answer
her; when he did, his voice was hard and cold. "It's easy enough to find
out."

"Save
me the trouble and tell me."

"Maybe
one day."

"You
said that before."

He
made no comment as he went to the workbench and picked up a length of wood that
had been cut into the shape of a crescent moon. There were a pair of them, and
he suddenly engrossed himself in the pieces as if she wasn't there.

She
wouldn't get answers from him.

On
a sigh riddled with discouragement and frustration, she offered a parting bit
of advice, "Don't be late for this afternoon's game."

"Have
I ever been?"

"As
a matter of fact, yes. Four weeks late."

* * * * *

"I
don't want to go to Boston with you, Alex," Captain repeated as he and
Alex walked across from the white-spired church on Hackberry Way to Dr.
Porter's office.

"That's
why we're going to the doctor's office, Cap, so I can give him your medicine
and he'll help you take it while I'm gone."

Captain
wore a Stetson identical to Alex's. "I can remember things sometimes. I think
I could remember my medicine." His fingers splayed through his full beard.
"But I can forget things, too. Huh, Alex?"

"You
can."

"That's
why we'd better give the doctor my medicines."

Crossing
the street, Alex said, "You have to promise me you'll go to Dr. Porter's
office every day."

"I
promise. Because if I had to give myself my medicine, I might take too much
like I did that one time. Or I might lose the bottles. I got lost in
Philadelphia. It's a good thing you didn't stay mad at me, or you'd have to
kick my ass. Right, Alex?"

Alex
smiled. "I'd never kick your ass, Cap."

Captain
grinned. "Maybe one day I'll kick yours."

The
words landed hard on Alex, but he pushed them off his shoulders. "Yeah,
you could do that, Cap. You're a big guy."

"So're
you."

"Yeah."

Alex
held on to a small bag containing the two bottles he'd been given from the
Baltimore Hospital. One was administered daily. The other, a powder, was given
only when Cap had a particularly bad headache. Alex had the medicines mailed to
him in Harmony when he ran out.

Between
the two, Captain seemed calm most of the time. But that calmness came with a
price. His coordination had been affected, he grew drowsy and sometimes
confused, more easily agitated—on rare occasions, hostile. But Alex had to give
him the medicine. The doctors told him it would help Cap, and Alex knew of no
other solution until he could get him to Silas Denton's hospital in Buffalo.

Alex
pulled open the door to the doctor's office and was greeted by the doctor
himself. He sat at a desk in the front office. A curtained partition led to the
examining room. Glass cabinets with glass shelves held instruments and various
items dealing with medicine.

"Mr.
Cordova," Dr. Porter said, standing and extended his hand. "I've been
expecting you."

He
was an elderly gentleman with thick white hair and scraggly eyebrows that
looked like tree bark. His face was kind and compassionate. Alex would never
have agreed to do this if it weren't for the fact that he trusted the doc. He'd
never taken Captain to him in an official capacity before. There had been no
need, as Alex got his medicines from Baltimore and Captain didn't need physical
exams.

"Doc,"
Alex replied, taking the man's hand.

"And
you are the patient?" Dr. Porter said to Captain in a tone that didn't
belittle Cap's capabilities.

Captain
stood his full height, seeming to dwarf the room. His gaze had traveled across
the four walls, looking and staring, then finally focusing on the doctor.
"I'm Captain." His eyes darkened, uncertain; a little afraid. "I
don't like shaving."

"You
don't have to."

"That's
good."

Alex
set the bag of medicine on the desktop. "The bottles are labeled with
instructions." He took a piece of paper from his pocket. "I wrote
down the names of the hotels I'll be at in case you have to find me."

Dr.
Porter nodded. "You come see me every afternoon, Captain, and we'll take
care of everything."

"All
right."

"If
he's not here," Alex said, "you'll have to track him down. Check the
mercantile first."

"I
will."

"Alex,"
Captain said with a scowl, "you're embarrassing me. I never get lost here.
He won't have to come looking for me."

"I
doubt he will." Alex did a quick calculation in his head. Today was June
17. He wouldn't be back until July 5. "I'll be gone eighteen days, Cap.
That's a long time."

"No
it's not."

"He'll
be fine," Dr. Porter insisted. "Do you play checkers, Captain?"

Smiling,
Cap replied, "Yes."

"We
can play some games if you'd like." The doctor motioned to the board set
up on a small table next to the front window.

Morning
light spilled in through the pane of glass, reminding Alex he had an hour to
get to the depot to make the train. "I've got to head out, Cap."

"All
right. I'm going to go to work now." He added in an excited tone,
"Then I'm going to the restaurant for dinner."

Alex
had arranged for Cap to eat his meals at Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant every
day. "See you when I get back."

"See
you."

Alex
nodded, hoping all would go well. He was reluctant to leave, but for more than
the obvious reasons. A date was looming, a date with which he didn't cope well.
Every year on June 25, Alex thought about Joe McGill.

And
about what should have been for the Giants catcher.

* * * * *

Alex's
pitching remained the same. Camille coached him, encouraged him, talked to
him—all to no avail. What she'd seen that day at the wood shop had stayed
there. The only hope she had of uncovering the reasons why were the newspapers.

She'd
seen Matthew Gage before she'd left for Cleveland. He'd told her the archive
room at the
Baltimore Sun
had sustained water damage and the back issues
she was interested in weren't readable. Mr. Gage had taken the liberty of
contacting the
Sporting News.
But it would take more time to get the
information she requested.

They'd
since played the Cleveland Blues and won one game because of fielding errors by
the opposing team and hits from Duke and Noodles. But they'd lost four.
Tomorrow marked the first of a four-game series with the Boston Somersets.

Their
train arrived in Boston shy of eleven o'clock at night. Camille and the players
went straight to the St. James Hotel, only to learn their rooms weren't ready.

At
the check-in desk, she sighed. All she wanted was to go to bed. But they did
have to eat, so they might as well do that while they were waiting.